


the witcher, heartless, cold

by concertconfetti



Series: Witchertober 2020 [10]
Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher (Video Game), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Alive Aiden, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Brutal Murder, Cat School (The Witcher), Feral Behavior, Graphic Description of Corpses, Hurt No Comfort, M/M, Mental Breakdown, Mental Instability, Witchertober (The Witcher), well...
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-21
Updated: 2020-10-21
Packaged: 2021-03-09 07:41:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,059
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27130064
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/concertconfetti/pseuds/concertconfetti
Summary: Witchers didn’t really go feral, despite the rumors circulating around the common folk. At least, most of them didn’t. Lambert never heard of a Bear or a Manticore or, hell, even a fuckin Wolf going feral. No, it was always Cats. Something about their mutagens, accounting to Geralt - Kittens going through the Trials came out the other end with a much higher risk of going mad.‘Madness’ for Wolves looked like kids in a catatonic fugue; not so for Cats.
Relationships: Aiden/Lambert (The Witcher)
Series: Witchertober 2020 [10]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1952140
Comments: 11
Kudos: 39





	the witcher, heartless, cold

**Author's Note:**

> written for witchertober day 20 - Feral

Witchers didn’t really go feral, despite the rumors circulating around the common folk. At least, most of them didn’t. Lambert never heard of a Bear or a Manticore or, hell, even a fuckin Wolf going feral. No it was always Cats. Something about their mutagens, accounting to Geralt - Kittens going through the Trials came out the other end with a much higher risk of going mad. 

‘Madness’ for Wolves looked like kids in a catatonic fugue, like Eskel and Geralt waking up screaming in the middle of the night, like Vesemir asking Ciri to spar with Pups that weren’t there. They were benign madnesses, ones that weighed down the witchers the afflicted, but largely left the world around them unharmed. 

Not so for Cats. Witchers from the Cat School were pumped full of poison, more so than the rest of them; it made them feel the world, the pain and the hell of it like the impact of a wyvern tail against your chest, the wind knocked clear out of your lungs doubled over with the sheer fucking shock of it. Aiden told Lambert once, what it felt like just to love him - “Obviously I got used to it, pulled everything back in,” he said, looking down at his hands where they lay on the blanket in his lap. “But, gods, Lambert, sometimes it’s like… like everything in me is boiling up through my throat and tearing out from between my ribs. It overcomes everything else until this… what we have? That first time it became _everything_ and I almost…"

He stopped, then, looking away from Lambert, and Lambert? He was dumb enough to think he understood, and he wrapped his arms around Aiden's waist and pulled him close and the conversation was lost in a haze of desperate fucking.

Lambert didn't understand, would _never_ understand but he did understand the sinking feeling he got in his gut when he woke up a month ago and Aiden was gone. By the time Lambert made it to the main house, Geralt looked grim. 

"Aiden grabbed his swords from the barn," he said, infuriatingly calm with his arms crossed. "Took your horse. Looked like he was headed north. I got Elder Roach saddled up for you."

"Good. Thanks," Lambert managed to grunt out, turning toward the barn, but Geralt grabbed his arm. Lambert snarled, "let me go, pretty boy. I have to -"

"You have to go, I know," Geralt said, but his grip on Lambert's bicep remained tight. "And I'm going to let you. But you have to know what you might be walking into."

"What? He got pissed at me for something and left," Lambert snapped, "obviously. It was bound to -"

"Lambert, Eskel and I think he's gone Feral," Geralt said in a rush, undercutting Lambert's self-deprecating tirade. "If you'd said you knew where he was going, or looked… fuck I don't know, less upset? Maybe I wouldn't be telling you this. But as it is -"

Lambert wrenched his arm out of Geralt's grip. "Fuck you, Geralt," he snarled, "that shit's a tall fucking tale used to scare kids before the trials. Witchers don't go Feral." That was the truth of it, but something in Geralt's open and soft expression that keeps Lambert rooted in place. And he lets Geralt explain.

* * *

Lambert found Aiden in Sodden, in a small, no-name crossroads village, by following the scent of blood. 

As he walks toward the village proper, the road becomes choked with red, rancid mud, every step marked in stark, sticky relief. He wasn’t keen on letting Aiden know he was here - not yet. Lambert veers into the treeline and stalks, wolf-like, through the underbrush and behind the inn, looking through the windows and taking horrific stock of the situation. 

Villagers and travelers alike, were draped over tables - all had died from precise and brutal cuts to arteries and tendons, each sliced through multiple times. Definitely a Cat School style - quick and efficient - but executed as if A- as if the Witcher had been fighting something much larger, more violent than a human being. Lambert swallowed around the anxiety building in his chest and drew his sword before stalking forward. 

Copper and iron, the acrid scent of blood and decay filled the air and made it difficult for Lambert to pinpoint his quarry. Difficult, but not impossible. He caught a whiff of sandalwood and sage, cat grass, and verbena under the oppressive scent of death. And, as he rounded the corner, he saw Aiden, stood in the crossroads, hunched and shaking. Lambert could see the thin, black veins in his face - he was near toxicity poisoning, given the number Lambert could count at this distance. And he was murmuring to himself. 

“...not here, please, not here. Not yet.” 

Lambert recognized the string of pleas - Aiden had whispered those words in his ear a number of times, and he’d whispered them to Aiden. In every near-death situation, they’d begged one another to stay just one more day. _Please stay with me just one more day._ Lambert felt his fingers shake, his grip on his sword felt loose and useless.   
“A-” Lambert’s voice broke in his throat, the strangled noise startling the witcher in the crossroads. He whirled around, face twisted in a hideous snarl; Lambert dropped his sword. “Aiden, I’m here,” he said, taking a careful step forward, attempting to appear as unthreatening as possible. (Hilarious, given the carnage - how threatening is an elven blacksmith with a cast iron pan?) 

For a moment, it seemed like Aiden recognized him - toxic black eyes searched Lambert’s face and Aiden’s expression slackens just a bit. It was luck that Lambert noticed the shift in Aiden’s stance before the Cat lunged at him - Lambert ducked, managed to pull his silver sword, and sliced upward in on practice, nearly automatic motion. Aiden fell, rolled to the side, his own blood mixing with the mud and the grass; he wailed inarticulately, grasping at his side as the wound opened wide across his torso, life leaking from his eyes in stray tears.

Lambert was there, at Aiden’s side as he always was, desperately pulling medical supplies out from his bag, as if salve and bandages would hold his lover, his best friend, together. He murmured to Aiden through heaving sobs, hoping, wishing for a miracle. 

“Please, Aiden, please, not now.”

**Author's Note:**

> title from Lullaby of Woe by Marcin Przybyłowicz & Mikolai Stroinski


End file.
